


Lessons from the Seaside

by Renflower



Series: Paths to Home [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-14 08:12:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2184342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renflower/pseuds/Renflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A family summer in Maine takes an unexpected turn for the young Robb Stark, when he starts learning about life by the sea from the boy working in the fish market. Theon/Robb, Modern!AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Gut a Fish

The first week Robb spends in Maine, he understands what people mean when they call themselves "alone."

It is only for the summer, his father keeps telling him, but never have the hot months seemed so long. At home, he has Jon and neighbors and schoolmates at every turn - what does he have here? Jagged rocks, cold morning mist, and old fishermen whose squabbles echo throughout the night.

His father sits down for family dinner and tucks in the younger siblings and wakes Robb when the sun rises, but in between, he disappears on business. The first few days, Ned arranges small daytime excursions for the children, but they quickly exhaust the sights of the small coastal town.

Between Bran's incessant climbing and Arya's quarreling with Sansa, Robb's mother has little time to spare for entertaining her eldest son. At twelve, he is too old to play games with his siblings all day, but is too young yet to help babysit. Catelyn balks when he asks to roam the nearby fish market freely. It takes days before she even listens to his whole proposal. But in time, she yields. As Ned reminds her, she can cast a stone from their porch and have it land square on the middle of a fisherman's stand.

Outside, the fishmongers' voices cry out their wares and prices, overpowering even the crash of ocean waves against the rocky shore behind them. _'Fresh'_ is a common mantra, as is a shouted _'sale, for sale,'_ and the occasional boast of the _'best lobster in_ _Maine_. _'_ Every now and then, a seagull's squawk punctuates their bellows.

It is the market's scent that Robb likes best, though. The cool breeze skims over the sea before blowing across the market, stirring the smoky scent of charred cod and of skin slathered in sweat and salt. Each fish stall smells a bit different, too. Some are acrid, cigarettes and warm beer. Others are thick, coal grills and Cajun spices. Yet others are salt and iron, butcher knives and half-gutted fish.

It is the last type of stand that Robb stops at, when he notices the boy.

The gaping, speckled fish easily takes up the whole table, but the boy's knife slices through its stomach with one clean motion. Not batting an eye, he hooks the slender blade around to saw off a filet longer than his arm. Pink organs gush from the open stomach, spilling out over his bare hands. After a couple minutes, the fish is reduced to a bucket of pink strips and a hacked mess of insides.

Unkempt hair and a fishing jacket too thick for the heat make it difficult to tell - but Robb figures the boy cannot be more than a year older than himself.

Robb has not seen any other boys working at the fish market - only grown men and middle-aged women with fishermen sons. He watches him clean and filet one more hulking sea creature, before he finds his voice. "What kind of fish is that?"

 _Shk._ The blade nicks of a fin. The boy does not so much as glance upward.

Robb clears his throat. "I said - "

"Cod." His voice barely raises above the clamor around them.

"Oh." Robb digs his heel into the cobblestone ground. "Did you catch it yourself?"

The boy does not slow his work. "If you want to buy, talk to Rodrik. He'll be back soon."

"Do I look like I'm buying fish? Maybe I was just talking to you."

The boy's eyes snap upward at last, and they are deep-set and murky; Robb cannot help but recall the sight of the ocean at dusk. They narrow when he studies Robb's face, as if realizing for the first time that someone is actually speaking to him.

"My uncle caught these," he says, and he hesitates before adding, "but I can catch fish too. Not as well as my brothers or uncles, but better than you green inlanders."

Robb is unsurprised; with his lean body and callused hands, it is easy to imagine the boy hauling in giants from beneath the sea. Robb, whose mother keeps saying she will teach him someday, pictures himself casting a line into the open sea. Visions of fighting the elements and reeling in a fish half his size, like in the movies, heat his blood. Already, he hears _plunk_ of a baited hook against rippling water, feels the damp scales scraping his fingertips. Robb imagines bringing home a fish to his mother to make for dinner that night, and his father smiling, proud.  

"If I come back tomorrow, will you teach me how?"

The boy's lips draw back to reveal a mouthful of scraggly teeth, and for a moment, it looks as if he is about to laugh.

A gruff voice cuts in first, " _Hey! Boy!"_ A tall young man gestures from the far east end of the market, carrying a rusted bucket of ice. His jaw is wide and square, his mop of dark hair tied back. _"Back to fucking work."_

The smile disappears, and with a dull ripping sound, the knife tears through fish flesh once more. He saws unevenly, and a pool of pink blood seeps into his sleeve.

Robb takes that as his cue to leave, and glances back towards his family's house. Already, he can hear his mother chiding him for talking with strange boys in this strange town. Disappointment gathers like a weight at the pit of his stomach. Just before he can hurry away, though, the boy speaks up.

"If you come back, I'll show you. Doesn't mean you'll learn. Come early though, or I'll be too busy."

That evening, his mother does not ask about his plans for the following day, but neither does Robb tell her of the fish stall boy. He can already hear her chiding, 'don't get too attached,' or worse, outright forbidding him to go.

He falls asleep wondering if all secrets taste so like rotting fish, and dreams of falling into the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New fic (and probably part of a series)! I’ll be posting two chapters a week regularly (days to be determined). Disclaimers: Ages are messed with to make some elements work. Haven't been to Maine, so working purely off internet research here, apologies if anything is inaccurate. Saw some pictures of the coast and it actually inspired this whole story (along with a fish market I went to in Sicily).
> 
> Anyway, would love any feedback and hope you enjoy!


	2. To Disarm a Squid

"You came back."

Robb furrows his brow. "I said I would, didn't I?"

The boy is on squid duty today, separating skull from tentacles over and over. His hands are slick from the squids' rubbery skin, and he smells sharply of ammonia. The foot traffic through the market is thicker on the mid-week morning, but he acts as if he does not hear the clamor. Robb had watched him lumber through the steps at least five times, too caught up in the task to notice his visitor.

"Maybe I wasn't serious about teaching you."

"Then I'll go and find someone who is." Robb shrugs. The thought of spending another day sans any kind of companion sucks the air right out of his lungs, but surely there is more than one kid his age in the town. And if not, even no company is better than that of a liar.

The boy bites his lip, rolling one slimy tentacle between his fingers. His eyes sweep the market aisle, but crowds show no sign of the man from yesterday.

"Alright, but we best be quick about it. My supplies are in the back."

When he returns, he holds a black tacklebox scarred with hard, crimson rust, and a glaring yellow fishing rod. He thrusts the rod into Robb's hands and leads the way to the "best spot on the mainland."

It takes ten minutes of walking before Robb remembers to ask the boy's name.

"Greyjoy. Remember it - anytime you meet someone worthwhile around here, they'll be one of us."

Robb wonders if the boy knows how rehearsed he sounds. But it doesn't matter, because it is the first time Robb has heard him laugh, and his smile is wide and full of crooked teeth.

"I meant your _first_ name."

"Theon."

Robb mouths the name, enjoying the way it rolls off the tongue. "Theon. I have a great-great- _great_ uncle or something who was named that." He remembers because his father used to show him the family tree, and Robb fell asleep to stories of hardworking men and women named Stark who shaped their land instead of fairy tales.

"And who are you then?"

"Robb. Robb Stark."

He tangles Theon's  fishing line five times that day, feels a tug twice, and catches exactly zero fish. He nearly throws down the fishing rod no less than ten times in defeat. But he remembers his father's face the last time he gave up learning - archery, that time -  and he keeps on. Besides, Theon's hand feels warm against his, guiding him into the proper grip.

The quiescent sport lets him learn things, too. For instance, that Theon hates silence, so much that he makes any possible comment if it grows too calm. That he has three older siblings, each of whom leads fishing expeditions of their own and rarely gives him any notice. That he must have never been asked to teach anyone before, because he expects too much and forgets to explain every other step. That he lives on an island off the coast and has to be homeschooled by relatives. That he never mentions his father - not even once.

Robb talks a little himself, especially about his siblings. Trying to put Sansa's grace and Arya's loyalty into words. Stories about Jon, the moody half-brother sent to summer boarding school. About Bran, and how Robb's world lights up when his brother looks to him for guidance. Even about baby Rickon, left home with a nanny, and how much Robb misses him. But he must be jumbling his words, because Theon only stares blankly and sneers that none of Robb's stories are actually about himself.

Yet still, when they are about to part back at the market, with the midday sun near blinding them, Theon says, "You travelling on further inland after this?" With a population below 500 and streets reeking of day-old fish, the town rarely merits more than an afternoon stop for travelers.

"No. I'll come back tomorrow, if my mother will let me and if you're not too busy."

Theon shoves his hands in his pocket and shrugs, but he will not meet Robb's eyes.

"We'll see."

That evening, Robb does not have a catch to bring to the dinner table, but he can name each type of fish his mother has brought home from the market. Halibut and mussels and filets of salmon, he points out to Arya's delight, the only one interested besides his parents.

His mother asks where he learned so much, and it is the perfect opportunity for him to come clean about hanging out with the fish market boy. But his mouth can't shove out the words, and his heart pounds too quickly, so instead he says some fishermen taught him. It's not a lie, he thinks, not _really_.

That night, Robb tosses and turns, and he realizes this is the first time he's ever had someone he could keep to himself. Everyone else - his brothers, sisters, friends, even _Jon_ \- never really seemed to belong to him. He cannot name a soul with whom he has a secret that is not shared by others.

"Theon Greyjoy," he whispers, and the name tastes almost sweet, tucked away in the corners of his mouth. _'Don't get attached,'_ Robb reminds himself, but the words ring hollow, and he cannot wait to go back tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy! Later chapters should be longer, and the next one will be up on Sunday.


	3. To Un-shell a Scallop

The next day, Robb asks if Theon has ever climbed the rocky cliffs nearby.

With a _clang,_ Theon immediately drops his shucking knife, shoving aside a pile of empty scallop shells.

Robb begins to regret his decision the minute they leave the market. Apparently, rock climbing is one of the few activities at which Theon actually succeeds. Robb can tell, because he won't _shut up_ about it. "Maron tried to climb these and slipped off in less than five minutes. Asha won't even try. She calls rock climbing dumb, but I know she's just scared, like a little _girl_."

 _'So are you actually good at it, or do your siblings just suck?'_ Robb wonders, thinking of Bran back home, who even at six could out-climb anyone he knew. But it is the first time he's seen a gleam in Theon's eyes, and the boy's grin no longer seems quite so strained.

When they arrive at the rocks, they strip away their outer layers. Theon shrugs his shoulders out of his ever-present jacket, and beneath his tank-top strap, Robb catches a flash of bruises. He wants to look away, stomach churning, but forces himself to look on.

"See these?" Theon points to an uneven blotch of purple and dark green sprawling from his collarbone to his left shoulder.  "That's what happens when you climb too quickly."

 _'And your forearm? What kind of rocks form a bruise in the shape of a handprint?'_ Robb swallows the thought, too heavy and terrible and _real_ , and nods.

The rocks glisten from the ocean mist, and their dark surface is blotted with slippery teal lichen. Robb asks if they don't need equipment, but regrets it when Theon finds ten different ways to call him a coward. Some are particularly creative, and Robb suspects Theon stole them straight out of his brothers' mouths.

The rock pile (not steep enough to be a cliff, not truly) cannot extend for more than a couple hundred meters before it comes to a plateau. Still, Robb struggles to make it to the top. The slope masks the toughness of the rocks, disguises the uneven spacing that makes each step an exercise in strategic gymnastics. His muscles tense and throb with each rock he hefts himself up on, his clothes soaked through with sweat. And it does not help that Theon seems to have forgotten all about actually teaching him, wrapped up in showing off every time he makes another step before Robb.

"What's the matter? Your fancy video games never teach you to climb some rocks?"

Where that assumption came from, Robb cannot even guess.  _'Do I really look that rich?'_ He wonders, suddenly conscious of his nice clothes and family's large estate back home.

He grits his teeth. "Doesn't your family own a whole _island_?"

"An island of goddamn _rocks_ ," Theon spits back. The grin returns, too tight. "The _best_ island of goddamn rocks though, don't you forget that."

In the end, Theon swings himself up onto the top of the rocks before Robb is even half of the way there. He peers down and calls, "Did you see that? First time making it to the top of _this_ climb."

Robb cannot help but return the smile. Muscles screaming by now, he has to admire this boy who must have worked day after day to achieve that kind of stamina.

"Nice job." He calls back. "Now watch this."

He swings his leg upward to press vertically against the sloping surface, preparing to propel himself up to the next possible rock to grip. The sole hits its mark with a dull _thud_. Robb's grin widens. "Check it - "

His other foot slips, displaced by the shifted weight.

 _'No, no, no, no,'_  he thinks, but his fingers are slipping. He's thinking of his father, his sisters and brothers left alone, and his mother most of all. His mother, who no doubt has this nightmare night after night, with Bran in his stead. _'Please no.'_

And the earth slams hard against his back, as the world spins into blackness.

" _Robb_!"

His shoulder slams against a jutting rock, and he has just enough sense to press through the shooting pains and grab hold. The hard stone digs into his palm, and he feels the skin breaking and screaming, but it stops his trajectory downward.

And then an arm wraps around him, and the grip is as strong and steady as the seaside boulders.

The journey down wracks his nerves, especially with Theon using only one arm to make the descent. But it proves less strenuous than the climb up; before he knows it, Theon is dropping him on flat, damp ground.

"You trying to get yourself killed?"

Everything aches. Arms, legs, back, neck...but no pangs so sharp as to cause him panic. A different story than if the fall had not spared his neck. A few days of discomfort, maybe, but he'd been picturing a hospital bed or worse. With a struggle, Robb lifts himself to his feet, wincing. "I'm fine, really. Sorry to worry you."

"I wasn't _worried,_ " Theon snaps, and Robb cannot figure out why he's glaring, arms folded tight against his chest. "This isn't even a real cliff, the worst that happens is you bruise up a bit like me is all."

 _'I could fall from the top and still not bruise up like that.'_ The thought comes, unbidden. He holds it back, but his stare lingers on his companion's shoulder for too long, and Theon snatches his jacket from the ground.

"We're going."  

The walk back to the market, neither finds many words to say.

Back at the fish stall, Robb hesitates before saying his goodbye. "My mother wants me to watch the girls until lunch tomorrow, but I'll come by after." 

Theon grabs his knife and with a violent twist of the wrist, pries open a scallop.

"I don't care what you do."

And Robb wonders if beneath the roughness, his new friend isn't mean all the way down to the bone after all. But he thinks again of those arms around him and the way Theon looked to him so eagerly for a smile at the top of those rocks, and he swears he'll be back tomorrow.

His mother eyes his scuffed clothes that night at dinner with a frown, but his father says a young boy should be allowed to get his hands dirty some outside. Arya begs for permission to play outdoors alone too, and then gets into an argument when Sansa rolls her eyes. And in the midst of it, his parents forget to press for details, and Robb keeps his secret for another day.

That night, Robb counts his aches one by one as he lays in bed, each a hard-won token of his very own, and tries not to wonder if Theon does the same.

 

 


	4. To Be a Greyjoy

The next week, Robb finds himself learning how to run a fish stall.

He seeks out Theon the first day, and finds him on his hands and knees, gripping a sopping sponge. He has no time for games today, Theon claims - the stall won't run itself.

"But," Theon says, before Robb can take his leave, "my _uncle_ Rodrik is on duty today, and all he does is _read._ You said you wanted to hang out with me, so what do you say? You want to scrub your pretty fingers raw?"

And Robb does not like the way Theon shows his teeth, a shark's smile that stretches too wide and does not crinkle his eyes. It's  as if he is just waiting for Robb to say no, so that he can laugh and then curse him for being a liar.

"Give me a sponge," Robb says, already rolling up his sleeves. He hates cleaning, but he'll be damned before he backtracks on his word. "What's the best technique?"

He earns a few kind words from the uncle that day, a serious man who knows the name of every regular customer but rarely garners so much as a wave. The man doles out some sparse acknowledgments for Theon as well, who puts his head down and pretends he is not beaming.

By midday, Robb has learned how to keep cleaning a floor, even when fishermen in dirty boots constantly trample over your hard work. He learns that you have to push the sponge forward to an edge, because scrubbing in circles only moves the dirt around. And that the burn of bleach on his skin cannot compare to the mocking of older kids passing through.

He wants to stay until evening, but Theon shakes his head. "You'll only get in the way when we close up shop."

Robb watches as Theon scrounges a beaten-up cigarette from his pocket and sticks it between his lips. The lighter fizzles twice before igniting. None of the other market workers look even phased, though Theon's appearance betrays his youth clearly. _'I didn't know you smoked.'_ Robb stares at the falling ash and wonders what else he doesn't know about his new friend.

"I'll be back tomorrow."

Theon's eyes are locked on Robb's hands, at the splotchy skin and wrinkled finger.

"Sure you will."

-              -              -              -              -              -

 

"We'll run the grill today. A lot of workers come by during lunch."

Theon's hands already leave behind black smears of char; no hour is too early for eating fish in this town, apparently.

 The outdoor grill spits and hisses when a thick filet hits it, choking out a puff of smoke. No one wipes it down between orders, so burnt bits of fish stick ragged between the bars. The rusty spatula hits the surface with a screech each time a filet must be flipped. Worse, the seagulls above squawk and circle above the stall, until Theon clips ones with a tossed rock and earns them a few minutes reprieve.

Robb tries to cook his first filet with a few curt instructions: Don't burn it, and only use a pinch of seasoning. The spatula sears his hand, and he has no idea how long to leave the grill running. Worse, Theon stands right behind him and watches the whole time, his stare burning against the nape of Robb's neck. The end result is a blackened filet that falls apart as soon as it hits the plate, and a customer who pays them with a dirty look and takes his business elsewhere.

When Theon laughs and makes his oh-so-predictable jests about their upbringings, Robb glowers. "Maybe it would help if you actually explained it to me. Instead of setting me up to fail."

The next time a customer stops by, Theon runs the grill and orders Robb to watch while he explains the basics:

Make sure the spatula forms a steady base beneath the fish, or it will fall to pieces when you try and pick it up.

 Your gut should tell you when the fish has finished cooking. But if you are not so gifted, then keep an eye out for flaking and hope your timing works.

Run the grill too hot, and you'll be left with a mouthful of ashes. Run too cold, and you'll be left with a bellyful of disease.

Even if both sides look cooked, the char may be deceiving you - always make sure you have reached the filet all the way to its very core.

When Theon flips pushes his cooked filet onto the plate in one piece, it is striped with crisp brown lines and smells of smoke and pepper. "You see? Not so hard after all."

"Your brothers teach you all that?" Robb asks.

"My brothers wouldn't even teach me how to tie my shoes. And none of them bother to cook." Theon scoffs. "I learned from my mother. It's a _woman's_ task, but she's sick and shouldn't have to feed them every night, and Asha's too busy to help."

That night, Robb offers to help his mother cook dinner for them all. She smiles, and he wonders how he never noticed the lines around her eyes or the way she sighs whenever Bran's climbing antics interrupt her cooking. She welcomes the chance to sit down for a few minutes. It does not stop her, though, from watching him like a hawk at the stove.

Robb wonders when his own loneliness had blinded him to his mother's exhaustion, and that night, he dreams of every meaningless little complaint he's thrown at her this trip. His cheeks flush red, and in a quiet prayer, he swears to try harder from here on out.

-              -              -              -              -              -

Robb decides immediately that he hates working with octopus.

He doesn't understand, at first, when Theon says they are "preparing" caught octopi. He assumes they will be cutting them into pieces, like he saw Theon do once with squids. But Theon laughs when Robb asks what knives they will be using.

Octopus has to be tenderized first, he explains. You must strike strong and sure, over and over and over, until its tough flesh transforms into something worth buying. And then, just to be certain, you beat it again and hang it out to dry.

His older brothers dropped off quite a few octopi to sell that day, early in the morning, before the sun even made an appearance.  The rubbery skin feels slimy against Robb's hands, and the floppy tentacles keep tangling around his wrist.

Theon says he dreads the tedious task, but when he bashes the octopus against the rocks, the light in his eyes betrays him. The more violent the strike, the more his lips curl into a closed-mouth grin.

Robb gets through the first octopus with salty fingers and only a few fumbles, but his arms grow tired quickly. He sneaks a glance at Theon, who has removed his jacket to show off lean arm muscles that tense with every motion. No wonder all the younger fishermen in town look like trained warriors.

Robb tells himself that he'll look stronger in a year or two as well, just like his father, but it's of little comfort in the moment.

"You done already?" Theon mocks.

With a clenched jaw, Robb picks up another octopus and slams it against the rock.

If Theon can get through the aches of tenderizing octopus without complaining, Robb swears, then so can he.

By the fourth octopus, when his arms are past the point of soreness, Robb has changed his mind about the work. Being able to direct his energy and strength into a real purpose, he finds, is like a strange kind of release. He never knew he had so much violence bottled up inside him. And when he glances over to Theon, whose shoulder is even bluer than the day they climbed rocks together, Robb no longer has to wonder why the task has him looking so pleased.

 

-              -              -              -              -              -

Gutting fish, however, proves to be exactly as sickening as it first looked.

The instructions are simple: Strip the fish away piece by piece, the eyes and heart and stomach, until nothing is left but meat.

Robb screws up cleaning two fish - a cod and a halibut - before asking Theon how he gets through an entire day of this.

"Really?" Theon says. "This is my favorite job."

Robb watches him stick a hand into the slit belly of a Pike fish. " _Why_?"

"I bet you don't complain when you're _buying_ filets. Whenever a customer cooks a fish without having to gut it and enjoys it, you know who that smile belongs to? _Me_."

"Even if they don't know who gutted it for them?"

Theon turns the fish and begins to saw off a strip. "They will. Someday. I'll lead expeditions so daring and successful, everyone will praise my name."

Although Robb estimates his help has actually _lost_ revenue for the Greyjoys, Theon's uncle still gives him a small basket of clams to bring home for his work. "I won't have it be said that we're exploiting children for free labor," the man says, "and the pleasure of Theon's company is a poor wage indeed."

Again, Robb offers to help close the shop, and again, Theon turns him down. This time, though, he also slams his palm against the counter and orders him not to ask again.

"Why not?"

"Because I said so. Now take your clams and get out of here."

"Fine. Then come have dinner with my family one night." Robb says, though he hasn't quite worked out how to explain this to his parents.

"Why? So they can gawk at your friend the fish boy? My family's dinner is plenty good enough."

_'Why is every conversation with you a fight?'_ Robb's fingers grip the basket so tight, the edges dig into his skin.

"Fine." He spits the word out, as if it contains all the bitterness building in his blood. But when he turns and heads away, he finds it has only left a sour taste in his mouth.

Just before he's out of earshot, Theon calls after him:

"If you come around, we'll do something more fun tomorrow, Robb."

And that's how Robb knows that, no matter how much his annoyance burns, he'll be back the next morning all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update on Sunday (probably)! Thank you to everyone who has commented/left kudos/whatever, it always makes my day!


	5. To Stay Afloat

Theon comes up with the day's plan for the first time. He knows a secret beach, far from the reach of city tourists and loud children and fisherman hordes. "A shoreline made from thousands of pebbles, and water so clear you can see little fish scatter around your feet."

Robb wonders aloud why they cannot go to the beach behind the market, but Theon will not answer his question. The beach takes only ten minutes to walk to, and Robb forgets about it soon enough.

On the way over, he catches Theon eyeing him a few times. It takes half the journey before he realizes Theon is scrutinizing his new jacket. Black and made of fine silk, it shelters Robb from the colder sea breezes, while being thin enough for the summer heat. It's not his preferred kind of attire, but his parents hadn't seemed to notice.  

"Do you like it? It's a gift from my father."

Theon wrinkles his nose. " _That?_ I could tear that thing just _walking_ around our island," he says. But his eyes linger on Robb's sleeve, and he keeps running his hands over his own charcoal, tattered fishing jacket.

In the water, Theon shows off his collection of scars: a puckered burn on his ribs, a pair of fading slashes on his upper back, the pink hook on his elbow. "This one is from swimming by a Lion's Mane jellyfish - the largest kind there is. These came from slipping off some rocks into the sea. This one's from surgery, when a storm sent me flying into the ship wall and broke my arm." He grins. "My father says a man without scars is not a man at all."

 Robb frowns at his own clear, smooth skin, and he wonders why his own father never told him anything like that.

"I've never had adventures like that." He confesses. "But my father says someday he'll teach me to ride horseback and hunt game. There's a lot of land, where we live."

The gap-toothed grin again. "I can tell. You swim like a woman."

 _'I know a couple women who I'd bet could keep pace with you,'_ Robb thinks, noticing Theon's attempt to hid his wavering balance on the uneven rock-bed below. But what he says is, "So I've been wondering something, Theon. What is it you want to be when you're older anyway?"

" _Be_? I'm already a Greyjoy - I'll take over for an uncle or my father."

"You've never thought about doing anything different?" 

Theon scoffs. "Have _you_? Your dad's some big shot, right?"

Robb wishes he knew more about what his dad actually _did_ ; as far as he knows, it's all acquiring businesses and developing land, and other complicated and tedious-sounding jobs his grandfather and great-grandfather used to do. His father keeps saying he'll teach him, though. Someday soon.

Robb skims his hand through foamy water, watching the way it makes tiny whirlpools. "Sometimes, when I read history books of battles and wars and revolutions, I wonder what it'd be like to write one myself." _Or be in one,_ another part of him thinks.

Theon laughs at that. "I know more science than any of my family. I can measure tides and calculate distances by the angle of the sun. I can name every sea creature from here to the Caribbean - even _Asha_ can't do that." He smiles, looking out to where the edge of the blue sea faded into the skyline."If I went to college, I could be in one of your books someday."

 _'Then do it. Let's go, both of us, and never look back.'_ Robb thinks suddenly, the urge bubbling up from seemingly nowhere. But in his mind, there's Bran and even little Rickon, with potential so great and wild that raising them is hell. There's Jon, and those cold looks Robb's mother throws him. There's Sansa and Arya asking him for a story, for tales of the lives they might get to live. If Robb doesn't take his father's place, one of them will have to take the burden on themselves. What kind of brother would that make him?

And besides - it only takes one look at Theon's face to know he'll never run.

So instead, he challenges Theon to a swimming race, and the boy's whole face lights up at the prospect of certain victory. And when Theon wins, they race again, and again, and again, until both are so worn and tired, they can barely stay afloat. Even after Theon leaves the water, Robb spends a few more minutes on his back, trying to make sense out of the formless clouds above.

That night, he lays in bed and makes up stories that end with him and Theon on the high seas, and he pretends not to notice that his jacket has gone missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one was a day late! Weekend was busier than anticipated. Next one definitely should be up Thursday though.


	6. To Spin a Story

One night, long after Ned turns off all the lights, Sansa and Arya sneak into Robb's room to demand a story. Exhaustion tugs at him, but Robb has not yet succumbed to sleep, blood still pumping  from racing with Theon earlier beneath the docks. The sharp stones had cut into his feet, and Theon had tripped at one point over a washed-up scrap of metal. Afterwards, they laid breathless on their backs and swapped stories and laughed until their ribs ached, stowed away from sight and sunlight.  

"C'mon, dad always tells us the same old ones, and yours are better anyway." Arya says, plopping herself down on the edge of his bed.

"Tell us a fairy tale." Sansa adds. "Father _and_ Mother don't know any good ones."

"Robb doesn't like _fairy tales_ ," Arya says, wrinkling her nose. "His best stories are the ones that aren't _fake_."

"Shut up, this was _my_ idea anyway."

Before it can devolve further, Robb raises a hand. "Knock it off, both of you. I'll tell you a fairy tale. And Arya, I promise you'll like it, okay? And if you don't, I'll tell you a new one."

So he tells them a story about a prince trapped in a tall, stone tower. A brother, stronger and meaner, placed him there, so he could not threaten to inherit the kingdom. And he's there for years and years, until the world outside is a distant memory, and the room is all that exists.

"A brave knight saves him, right?" Sansa interrupts, hands clasped together. Arya rolls her eyes, but hesitates and adds, "Or a _girl_ knight?"

"No, knights have to be loyal to their lords, and they all support their ruler. The prince doesn't want to rule anyway, doesn't want knights sworn to him."

Instead, there is a king from a distant land. He used to ride horses with the prince, when they were very young and visited each other's kingdoms. Remembering his old friend, he rides to the tower with knights of his own. And when he arrives, he yells up to the prince that he has brought a ladder, to free him from his prison.

But the prince says he does not want to be free.

"That's _stupid_." Arya says. "Who doesn't want to be _free_?"

Robb ruffles her hair. "Remember, he's been in the tower most of his life. He has no reason to trust the king, and he has no life outside."

"Isn't he lonely?" Sansa asks.

"At first. But there's a village nearby, and a few people bring him books and food and conversation, and they become the truest family he has. He does not want to leave them, and if he leaves the tower, the ruler might hurt them."

Arya shakes his arm. "So what happens?"

So Robb tells them of how the prince says no at first, but the king keeps coming back. So he starts to yell, to refuse to come to the window, to toss insults, anything to stay put in the world he loves. Until finally, the king realizes he cannot force the prince to free himself.

"So what? He stays in the tower forever? That's awful." Sansa says.

"Not _so_ awful. The king decides to bring the prince pieces of the outside, instead. He breaks down the door of the tower, so he can come visit his friend in person and bring gifts whenever he wants.

" But the king lives far away," Arya, far too clever for her age, points out. "How often can he visit?"

Robb sighs. "Not often, but whenever he can. You're missing the point here."

"What _is_ the point?"

"That sometimes we make our own prisons. And that saving people doesn't always happen one specific way. Or something like that." Robb says, rolling his eyes. "I don't know, do I look like an expert? If you don't like it, leave or get Father to tell you one instead."

"One last question, I swear." Sansa says. "Why did the king want to save him, if they barely knew each other? It'd be a better story if they were best friends or brothers or _something_."

Robb shrugs. Truthfully, he thinks Sansa would make a better storyteller than him, and he wonders why she keeps bugging him for stories just to critique them. "I don't know, maybe - maybe he just hates being a king. And when he's with the prince, he's not - he's just a person. He's just _him_. And that matters."

On that, he shoos the girls out of his room, promising Arya through a clenched jaw that he'd tell her a "better" one tomorrow. And once alone, he closes his eyes and find he cannot sleep at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late-ish update, I know and apologize - while this chapter is short, I wanted to rework it quite a few times. Anyway, hope you enjoy!


	7. To Catch A Fish

"Have you ever kissed a girl before?"

Robb is trying his hand at fishing again, though in a different spot this time. _This_ spot, Theon claims, is _truly_ the best one inland. He swears Robb will catch a fish today, if he has to physically grab one from the water and impale it on Robb's hook.

Three failed reel-ins have intensified Robb's focus, when Theon breaks the charged silence with his question.

"What?" Robb snaps back to reality, turning to face his friend.

"A _girl_ , Robb. Have you ever kissed one."

Robb's fingers tighten around the fishing rod. He tries to keep his expression blank, but his knuckles flash white, even as his face feels lit aflame under the summer sun.

Last year, one of Sansa's friends told him she liked him, face pink as the sunset. A pretty girl, with long brown hair and even longer legs, who giggled a lot and treated Sansa like a sister. Caught off guard, he couldn't think of anything proper to say, so he told her "thanks" and "maybe someday." She took it well, but Sansa must have told their father; that night, he sat Robb down and told him it was cruel to give a girl hope if he did not mean it. Sometimes, he wonders what it would be like to kiss her, imagining the taste of cherry lip balm and warm soda.

"No," he says, looking back to the fishing line, "I haven't."

" _Really_?" Theon says, leaning in with a laugh. "Do you want to? Someday?"

Robb pictures some of the girls in his small class. Kyra, who filled in earlier than the rest and once slipped him an extra Valentine. Beth, who always purses her full lips when she offers to help him with homework. Jeyne, with her soft voice and hair that smells of lilac, whom he avoids sitting next to during lessons, because she always makes him laugh.

He thinks of kissing them, sometimes, even in his dreams. Other times, he catches himself staring at another boy for too long, wondering how that might taste, and Robb wonders what that makes him.

"Maybe," he says, carefully. "Have you kissed many, then?"

Theon grins."All the time.Schoolgirls visiting from the city, poor girls who only know my family name, hot _older_ girls leaving to go fishing who want a little luck. "

"Maybe that's why I'm not catching any fish," Robb says, eying Theon skeptically, "you have all my luck."

"Don't believe me, do you?" Theon challenges. "I can prove it." And suddenly, Theon's palm is warm against his cheek.

And then his face is burning, blood pumping, and Theon's lips press against his, and he tastes like sea salt and smoke and everything that is right and wrong in the world.

And with the splash of tide against the rocks, it's over. And Robb's breath is coming in too quickly, his hands so tight on the fishing rod, he fears the metal might bend. His heart thuds so heavily that Robb feels it like unbearable pressure in his ears, even as he braces himself for Theon's cruel laughter.

But it's not laughter he sees on Theon's face. Not even the smile he always wears. It's expectation etched into the tense lines of his face; it's fear buried in his dark, enlarged pupils.

_'This is_ Theon,' he tells himself, telling himself anything to calm his body, _'Theon who's thoughtless and always mocking people. Theon who takes everything as an insult or a joke. Theon who would turn on you in a_ second _, if he thought you were going to leave him.'_

And Robb wonders what right he has to think any of those things, when he's the one who hated being alone so much that he latched onto the first boy he met.

He opens his mouth - to say what, he has no idea - when his fishing rod jerks from a hard tug.

Theon grabs hold of Robb's shoulder, fingers digging in hard. "Go on, reel it in!"

Pulling backward, Robb spins the handle and grimaces. The fish can't be too heavy, not from the feel of it, but it's quick and keeps darting side to side.

And then Theon's hand is covering his,  and with the added guidance, the line yanks clear out of the ocean water.

"It's a herring," Theon says, with barely a glance. "A good beginner's fish."

Running one finger over the fish's light, slippery skin, Robb says, "Guess you've got some luck after all."

It's the moment he's hoped for the entire trip - the whole _reason_ he started talking to Theon in the first place. Robb searches deep for some joy, some sense of satisfaction, but finds the pit of his stomach utterly gutted of any contentment. A shiver runs up his spine, as the gaping fish wreathes against his palms.

He can't bring it home. Of that much, Robb is certain. If he shows up to dinner with a strange dead fish, how will he answer his parents' questions? Unless he came up with some fake tale, he'll have to tell them about Theon and the past couple weeks. That might earn him only a light scolding about strangers, but afterwards, they would insist on meeting his new friend. And even on the off-chance that Theon agreed, Robb would have to stand there and pretend that nothing transpired between them. That friendship is as far as he wants Theon's company to go.

Robb tosses the herring back into the sea.  He never could tell a decent lie.

Theon stands up. "What'd you do that for?"

"I didn't want to kill it." Robb shrugs. It's true, in a way. He hated seeing it struggling for life, when it'd just been minding its own business.

Theon rolls his eyes. "It's _weak_. In a day, a week, a month _maybe_ , it'll be caught by another fisherman or eaten by a shark or a gull. The fish is already dead, Robb - it just doesn't know it yet."

_’It has a chance now, at least.'_ But Robb doesn't feel like arguing. Not now.

They barely talk during the walk back to the market. Theon tries to fill the silence every now and then, whispering sly comments about passerbys or pointing out a spot he's fished before. Robb listens, but for some reason, cannot form responses longer than a single word or two. And the more their quiet grows, the harder Theon clenches his jaw, the less he looks at Robb.

They stop off near the Greyjoys' fish stall. Robb glances in the direction of his family's house, but his breath keeps catching. "It's past five already, so my mother's probably going to lecture me like crazy when I get in. You should - "

_’Don't say it.'_

" - wish me luck."

"Luck."

And he hates the look on Theon's face, hates the jeering behind that grin. Hates that he _knows_ exactly what Robb wants and still wants to make him say it. Robb's fingers curl up so tight he can feel the blood pulsing through them.

And there's that goddamn laugh. "Your face goes as red as your hair when you're angry. Any of your friends back at your _real_ home ever tell you that?"

Before he can respond, Theon's hand slips behind his back, fingers curling against his thin shirt. This time, his lips press hard and firm, and beneath the kiss, Robb can feel pressure from the faint curve of his smile.

When they break apart, Robb  looks both ways, but the market traffic has hit a low. The few customers that _are_ around are caught up in other stands.

But Theon's skin pales, and his eyes keep darting towards the east market entrance, his grin fading in degrees. "You should get out of here. I don't want to get you in trouble with anyone, even your mother. Tomorrow?"

Robb swallows hard, but he nods. "Tomorrow."

Afterwards, when he cannot rid the taste of Theon from his tongue, and his skin seems so lit with a fire that will not dwindle, and his body feels like skin stretched too tight over a bundle of lies, Robb wonders if he meant it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! Thanks so much for all your awesome encouragement so far!


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